Excrescence
by Basalit-an
Summary: Anders develops a strange rash which quickly spreads, depleting his energy and magic. He needs a cure, and fast. He turns to his friends and enemies for an answer.


Excrescence

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Does _that_ hurt?"

"I can't feel anything."

Varric glanced between Merrill's wide-eyed and curious stare to Anders, who looked damn near ready to pass out. All three were completely focused on the black strip of flesh stuck on Anders' arm. Varric didn't know when this had developed, but Anders had just met up with him in the Hanged Man to show him. Unfortunately for Blondie, a certain Dalish elf was visiting Varric as well, and had been treated to this grotesque display.

She seemed absolutely thrilled by it.

"How did this happen?" Merrill asked, poking at the darkened skin on Anders' exposed arm.

"I don't know," Anders replied, his voice trembling on the edge of panic. His pupils were mere pinheads surrounded by hazel-honey, and the whites of his eyes were streaked with red. If this had been going on for more than, say, five minutes, Anders would certainly be hysterical about it. "I've been trying to treat it. A few things seemed to help it, for a little while, but then it came right back." He rubbed at his forehead with the hand attached to the so-far un-diseased arm. Varric didn't fail to notice the tremors in Anders' fingers.

"It can't be darkspawn taint," Varric offered, hoping to bring some measure of comfort to his friend. "You'd be a shambling husk right now, and a dead one at that. Far as I can tell, you're still very much alive."

"It can't be the taint because I've already got that," he snapped, but sighed and shook his head.

"Is it a fungus?" Merrill asked, looking at her own fingers now, probably wondering in delight if it was contagious. Anders could only give a helpless shrug to her question before pulling down the sleeve of his robe.

Varric leaned back in his chair, hand on his goblet of ale. He'd never seen or heard of anything like that, and he'd heard a lot around here. Whatever Anders had, it was new and it wasn't pretty. Varric didn't like the thought of Blondie harboring some outlandish disease. Though if he did catch it during their expedition in the Deep Roads, then Varric had something else he could blame on Bartrand.

It'd be nice if Hawke were around. Ever since they had come back from the Deep Roads, burdened with old artifacts, gold coins and bad memories, Hawke had taken off on a number of projects that had eaten up all her time. When she wasn't petitioning the Viscount to purchase her family's old home, she was out surveying the Bone Pit, which she half-owned, protecting her employees from any dragon-based danger, or else she was probably rolling around in her pile of money. Varric hoped she was, anyway. She'd bloomed into quite the businesswoman over the past months.

Though it was nice to think Hawke was happy, that did leave the fact that she wasn't available to aid Anders in this rather confounding issue. At the same time, that wasn't any excuse to sit around and just poke at Anders' little rash.

"Calm down, Blondie," Varric said, settling on the decision that they had to act, Hawke or no Hawke. "You leave it to me. I'll find some information, maybe a recipe for a potion."

"And me!" Merrill piped up. "I'm sure there's someone in the alienage who's heard of this. Well, maybe not, but it's worth a try." She smiled brightly at Anders, and the mage with the complex just stared back at the two of them.

Varric took a swig of his ale. "Maybe you should lay down for a while, Blondie, before you end up face-down in your drink. Just relax and leave it to us."

Anders' bleary gaze moved between Varric and Merrill. "I don't think I'll be relaxing."

Anders' mouth was a thin, straight, bleak line as he sat across the small table from the man in red and black robes.

He was someone Varric had found through his contacts. A necromancer. The very thought of this mage's abilities made Anders feel sick. Reanimating corpses was just _wrong_ and probably very messy. Anders couldn't even fathom where Varric might have found a necromancer. The practice was rare, as it required the use of blood magic and, supposedly, a strong stomach. Though, worryingly, it seemed like practicing blood mages had started to spike in Kirkwall. Perhaps necromancy had also risen in popularity.

Anders couldn't stand blood mages. And of all the places, they had to meet in a shady back room of the wretched Blooming Rose!

The man smiled pleasantly, though, as if he were just a friendly neighbor and not someone who played with dead things all day. His skin was milky, but not clear, and his face was pocked with freckles, pimples and couple of small moles. Though he couldn't be much older than Anders, the man's hair was flecked with gray and his eyes were ringed with dark circles, flanked by crows' feet and looked a little cloudy.

"I'm Leonius," the man introduced.

Anders doubted that was his real name. "Anders," he responded.

"I know. You're the healer from Darktown, aren't you?" he asked pleasantly, to which Anders only nodded. "You do great work, serah." Anders wasn't sure if the necromancer was commenting on the Anders' ethics or the quality of his work. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Leonius squinted down at Anders' arm, which he'd laid out on the table with his sleeve rolled up to show the dark patch of skin. In the time since Anders had shown Varric and Merrill, the small tendrils that originated from the black mark had stretched up his arm to his shoulder and twisted around his fingers. Wherever the blackness touched he had lost feeling in, though sometimes it would spark to life with a pins-and-needles sensation that would last several minutes.

"Been fighting undead recently?" Leonius asked, his very Free Marchy accent grating.

"No," Anders said honestly. Hawke hadn't dragged him away in a long time for any adventuring, for which he was grateful. Going through the Deep Roads again was a reoccurring nightmare he had been wishing he could avoid. For the past six months, Hawke had left him alone save for a few drinks together in the Hanged Man on occasion.

"It almost looks like your flesh is desiccating," the necromancer said a bit too cheerfully. "This is really very fascinating. Have you treated anyone with a similar condition?"

"I haven't," Anders replied shortly. If he _had_, Anders would be asking that patient about it, and not sitting in a small room with this blasted blood mage.

Leonius just shook his head. "I can't tell you what this is, but I'm certain of one thing: should this festering reach your liver, you will probably die."

"You're certain of a probability?" Anders asked, wanting to panic and fighting to stay calm. He needed to think this through.

"Almost," Leonius replied with a satisfied smile.

Anders stared at the black flesh covering his arm, trying to keep rational. Nothing this man said even made sense, but staring at this desiccation was not helping Anders to think any different. What he did know was that this—this whatever it was, infection, disease—was definitely spreading. Without knowing what it was, Anders could only assume the worst, and he knew he had to find a solution fast.

He left the Blooming Rose moments later, walking too fast. His mind was entirely consumed with his problem, and his gaze was focused inward. He saw nothing until he just nearly collided with Fenris.

Anders stammered out something sounding like an apology, and the elf quietly glared up at the mage. For a silent moment, Anders just stared at Fenris, thoughts slowly forming in his shocked mind: Fenris was from the Tevinter Imperium, had been slave to a magister for years, supposedly. Perhaps he'd seen things that Kirkwall apostates could only imagine.

Before either of them could react, Anders had Fenris ushered to a quiet alleyway. "What are you doing?" Fenris demanded. Anders knew Fenris just about hated him, and the feeling was absolutely mutual. Gladly, in fact. But today, Anders needed answers.

He pushed the sleeve covering his arm up, exposing the black skin once again. "Do you know anything about this?"

Fenris' cat-like eyes gazed at the flesh for several seconds. "I didn't poison you," he stated calmly.

"No, that's not what I—wait, did you?"

Fenris met his gaze. "No."

Anders sighed. "You wouldn't happen to know what this is, would you? Is there any way to fix it?"

Fenris seemed to consider this for a moment, then offered, "I could cut it off for you."

Anders yanked his sleeve down. "Forget I mentioned it."

Merrill strolled down a passage in Darktown, keeping her eyes on the ground to make sure she wouldn't step on any broken glass. Four years she'd been staying in this city; by now she might have invested in a pair of shoes with soles. For some reason, the thought always slipped her mind when she was out shopping. Every time.

She did wish she'd had Hawke with her. Or anyone. She had actually never come to Darktown alone before. She never really had any errands down there to attend to herself. And she never liked being in Darktown, so that worked out just fine. It was just so dark and dank and a lot like the alienage, but with less sunlight and more keening.

She turned a corner and looked around. None of this looked familiar. She went the other way, but that didn't look any better. She knew Lowtown well enough now that she didn't need the ball of twine that Varric had given her, and she hadn't brought it with her on this errand. She had planned to, but must have forgotten it home because it wasn't in her satchel.

She groaned, and considered turning back and returning to Lowtown, but she did have some news for Anders. A possible solution to his problem. She wanted to tell him right away. Now she realized how foolish that was. It's not like she could just ask any of these people for directions, either. They all looked too, ah, busy.

She quietly passed by a group of four men all fighting each other. They didn't notice her, thankfully. She took another turn, avoided a piece of glass sticking up in the mud and—oh! There was the elfroot! It was undergrown, certainly, and it looked a little spindly, but there it had been growing in defiance of this miserable area's dank and dark conditions. An inspiration for anyone who cared to look. And knew what an elfroot was.

But it was from this plant that Merrill could find Anders' clinic, and within minutes she was standing outside the battered shelter, one greenish lantern lit outside it. As she moved to open the rotting wooden door, she hesitated. There wasn't a password, was there? Hawke usually just walked in. And this was a clinic. But Anders was paranoid.

With a shrug, she opened the door, which creaked in its threshold and gave a little resistance. Merrill saw the healer kneeling over a man with some kind of rash on his hands. Possibly stinging nettle rash, if Merrill remembered correctly. Probably had been using the herb's extract to make a poison—they did that in Darktown, make poisons, awful stuff—and spilled it all over his hands. And he didn't know that if just soaking them in salt water would clear it right up.

Even so, a little nettle rash should have been an easy problem for Anders to fix, but this seemed to be taking a long time, so maybe she had been mistaken about that rash. Maybe this rash was a little more like the one Isabella had to go see Anders about. Though her's wasn't on her hands. Merrill didn't know where it was, but she'd have seen it if it were on her hands.

Merrill quietly leaned against a wall, out of everyone's way, and waited. She looked down at her feet. Over at a table holding water and bandaging. At a pile of wood harboring little beady eyes. She felt slightly uncomfortable just hanging around in the clinic, and when she glanced over at a group of people—humans—they were glaring at her. She knew humans didn't like elves that much. For some reason.

Finally Anders stood up and turned away from the man. If he said anything, Merrill didn't hear it. The man gave Anders a dirty look and left the clinic in a huff. Merrill just stared at her feet until he was gone; he definitely did not look happy.

Walking over to Anders as he sat down on the bench his patient had been sitting on, she didn't fail to notice the troubled look on Anders' face. Mostly because his face always looked like that, no matter where he was. In Hightown, in the Hanged Man, in the Deep Roads. He'd probably look like that in a sunny meadow of flowers.

Anders' gaze caught Merrill's as she walked over to him, and he sat up straight. "What are you doing here?" he asked, or more like snapped. There was a fire behind his eyes and a flash of ethereal power. Merrill knew what that meant, but she didn't so much as hesitate.

"I came to see you," Merrill answered. "I might know of something that could help with your-"

"No!" he said, almost as if in a panic, his voice hushed like Templars were present. His eyes flashed again, and a guttural growl seemed to snake into his tone. He was on his feet suddenly. "Not here." He took a deep breath, calming down. Regaining control. Merrill wondered if he'd even been talking to her. "Why didn't you wait until I came to the Hanged Man?" he asked after a moment, his voice normal once again.

Merrill shrugged, showing no indication she'd even noticed the changes in Anders. "I couldn't wait. I wanted to show you this." She reached into the pocket of her satchel for the little bag she'd placed in there, but found nothing. She didn't leave that at home too, did she? As her hand deftly searched each pocket on her little satchel, Anders sighed and rubbed his eyes with his good hand. "Oh! There it is," Merrill stammered with a nervous giggle, pulling out the red muslin bag and handing it to Anders.

He gazed upon the bag for a moment, then opened it. Merrill saw that his fingers were nearly all black now, the nails dry and cracked. What looked like a boil bloated outward on his knuckles. Anders dumped the contents of the bag into his blackened palm, the small, pink dried leaves tumbling out easily. He looked at them, then at Merrill questioningly.

"They're himlin," Merrill said, unable to help the smile playing at her lips. "The Dalish use the leaves as a balm. And they grow all over Sundermount. In fact, they're in bloom right now." She realized she was rambling again, so she took a breath and started again. "I thought you could use this to make a potion. Or something."

Anders took the smallest pinch of the leaves between two diseased fingers and rubbed them together, bruising the leaves against his skin. When he looked at Merrill again, his gaze was soft, and a small smile was on his thin lips. "Thank you, Merrill," he said slowly. "This may help a great deal."

Merrill grinned in return, a warm feeling in her belly. She and Anders rarely saw eye-to-eye on many things, especially certain practices, and that usually lead to arguments and hostile, passive-aggressive comments about each others beliefs. But despite that, Merrill liked Anders and did care for his well-being, even if he did push his own morals onto everyone else. She wished they could get along.

"Do you mind escorting me back to Lowtown?" she asked sheepishly, glancing out the door as a loud crashing sound came from the tunnels.

Anders carefully put the leaves back in the bag and placed the pouch in a pocket on his coat. "Of course," he said. "Lead the way."

"You want to climb Sundermount for some plants?" Varric asked incredulously, sitting back in his chair.

"I'll need them for a potion," Anders responded in his usual matter-of-fact tone. He absently scratched at his neck where some small black tendrils had begun to snake up his skin.

"That's looking nasty," Varric commented, eyebrows raised.

"What is?"

"Don't you ever look into a mirror?" Varric scoffed as Anders just gave him a confused look. "It's making tracks to your face, Blondie."

Anders' mouth became a thin line. "Sundermount," he pressed.

Varric stared across the table at Anders for a moment, crossing his arms over his exposed chest. "Do you remember what happened the last time we went there?"

"Well, I wasn't with you," Anders responded, "but Hawke did tell me you had to fight a varterral."

"Yes, and Bianca got scratched."

Anders sighed. "Then do you know where Hawke is?"

Varric just shook his head. Hawke was Hawke, always busy doing something. "Last I'd heard, she was out saving Kirkwall from itself."

"She's always doing that," Anders responded heartlessly. Black distorted fingers anxiously tapped on the arm of his chair. Anders always looked like shit, but sitting there, in the glowing candlelight of the Hanged Man, he looked like dying shit: his eyes were bloodshot and the dark circles that usually nested under his eyes had darkened, making him look like a sad, blond raccoon. His hair looked dry and greasy at the same time, hanging limply off his head and seemed thinner in some places. The hollows of his cheeks had gradually deepened so that he appeared almost skeletal. And it had only been a week since they'd last spoken.

"Tell you what," Varric said, swallowing any emotion from his voice. He cared about Blondie, of course, but he wasn't about to cry out his feelings about him. He had a reputation to keep. "You and I, and probably Daisy, we can all go to Sundermount and find your plants."

Anders looked at Varric, surprise in his cloudy eyes. "You mean it?"

"Of course I do," Varric said with his signature smile. "Though the three of us..." He rubbed his chin, thinking. Sure, Daisy, Blondie and himself could easily hold their own in any number of fights should things turn rough. But it wouldn't be a bad idea to take out an extra insurance policy. "And Fenris."

"Fenris?!" The look on Anders face was absolutely priceless, and it definitely brought some color back to him. Perhaps Varric should throw surprises on him more often. "Not Fenris! I can't—No way—he wouldn't even agree to it!"

Varric nodded in agreement, but having some extra muscle—especially on Sundermount, around those grumpy Dalish elves—would be comforting, to say the least. They would certainly need some leverage in convincing Fenris. He wasn't an easy man to convince, either. Only Hawke seemed able to sway his mind about things, and that's because she had a way about her that seemed to work on everyone.

Just then, Varric caught sight of Isabella walking passed the open door to his room, stretching her long arms over her head. That could work. "Hold on, Blondie," he said, getting up from his chair.

He joined Isabella at the bar as she was attempting to order a drink. "Hey, Rivaini, I need a favor."

"I'm busy, Varric," she said grumpily, returning the glare Corff was giving her, but that didn't discourage him. She always was a bit of a thorn in the mornings.

"Hey," Varric called to Corff and put down a few coins. "You know how to treat a lady, right?"

Corff hesitated, then sighed and reluctantly poured some whiskey into a tumbler. Isabella caught Varric's eye and he smirked. "Alright, you have my attention now," she said, picking up her tumbler. "What do you need?"

Fenris would admit that many times in his life he had underestimated certain people. Hawke would be one of them, as he would never had figured a woman, a _mage_, would have grown to be so prominent. Hadriana—Fenris would never forget just how far that woman was willing to go to reach her goals. And then there was Isabella.

She had a way about her. She must have. Because Fenris was about to be dragged on a field trip to Sundermount with not one, but two mages. Who hated each other. And she hadn't even touched him!

Perhaps he needed to lay off the wine for a while.

Fenris walked a few steps behind Anders and Merrill. Varric was between them, chatting with Merrill about Kirkwall, apparently scolding her for once again wandering alone at night. Foolish. They were passing through the city gates, heading towards the mountain path that would take them to Sundermount. The journey itself would take a couple of hours, in which Fenris expected to hear Varric tell impossible tales, Anders to blow on about how _helpless_ mages are, and Merrill to just talk. And talk.

Not what he had planned today. But then he didn't have any plans today.

He sighed, perhaps a bit loudly, because Merrill looked back at him. "You certainly don't look very happy," she observed, slowing to walk beside him. He didn't dignify her remark with a response, but rather gave her a dirty look. "Actually I'm surprised you agreed to go with us." Fenris rolled his eyes, and ahead of him Varric snorted.

"I was convinced," Fenris said carefully, earning another suppressed snigger from the dwarf.

"I'm glad you were," Merrill said cheerfully, and he cursed her for her constantly-friendly demeanor. She was like a dog. You could scorn her, berate her, even strike her, and she would only respond with smiles and kind words. It was sickening. And annoying.

Ahead of him, Fenris heard Varric mutter, "Thank you, Rivaini," to Anders, whose ghost of a smile was almost depressing. The mage had shown Fenris what looked like a severe infection on his left arm about a week prior, but Fenris would have assumed Anders, _being a healer_, would have been able to take care of it.

Evidently not, Fenris realized, as he saw pencil-thick black tendrils climbing up the back of Anders' neck and snaking into his hairline. Neither Isabella nor Varric had bothered to tell Fenris the reason they were all hiking up Sundermount, but Fenris had just figured it out for himself.

Had Fenris seen that somewhere before? He tried to wrack his brain about it, but memories weren't exactly his strong suit. Still, there may have been something.

"Sundermount is so beautiful," Merrill beside him chattered, and he had the urge to pull his sword on her. "You should see it at sunrise. All the dew glittering and the snow at the peak shining in the sunlight." A smile curved her lips upward.

"I'm sure it is," Anders commented, his voice low and monotonous. "I do regret never having seen it."

"Now don't talk like that, Blondie," Varric said, almost snapped really, and all of a sudden Fenris got the feeling he was missing something.

The four of them were silent for a time, Fenris glancing between his companions. They had all seemed to become tense; even Merrill looked troubled and cautious, and she was never cautious. "So are you dying?" he asked Anders bluntly.

"Fenris!" Merrill snapped, but Anders glanced back at Fenris with a wan smile.

"I may be," he said, sounding melodramatic. Then again, he did sound entirely believable with that blackness streaking up his chin. Had it been that advanced when they left Kirkwall? Fenris couldn't remember, but he knew he would have noticed that. He made no further comment, and the group moved on in a silent march.

Anders took a deep breath, then another. It was hot that day, the sun having risen quickly in the sky, beating down on the party. Yet Anders only felt a sick chill in his body, the kind that clung onto one's soul and felt like a black cloud blotting out warmth. He shivered listlessly and wondered if the reanimated dead felt like this. Probably not, since they no longer had any soul to speak of, and they were controlled by a living person anyway.

For all he knew, he was being controlled by another person. This infection, or whatever it was, had started to spread like wildfire across his body. The discoloration had streaked across his chest, spindly branches of blackness hugging him from shoulder to shoulder. These veins shot upward towards his neck and down his sternum. He couldn't know what would happen if this trail ever hit his liver. The necromancer had said it would kill him. Since that time, Anders had been wracking his brain for an answer, a clue, but nothing in his experience so far had ever come close to this.

It was like a plague, spreading through his body, leeching his strength, energy and, indeed, even his magic. He hadn't mentioned this to Varric or Merrill, but Anders had noticed it. His healing spells had been steadily growing less effective. Where he could mend broken bones in seconds now proved difficult in a quiet environment, let alone the chaotic, damp rooms of his clinic. Scratches, scars, headaches – little things that should be of no effort for him now required careful thought and focus. And as for his more offensive spells...

He could hardly get a spark to leap from his fingertips, let alone unleash the storm he usually could muster. He'd been keeping track of his weakening skills. That morning, hours before the sun rose, Anders had been trying to use his paralysis spell on a bird. Watching it pause on the ground for only a moment before fluttering away had been heartbreaking. He hadn't tried his shielding spells, but he could figure that he'd have better luck hiding behind thatch walls.

But the worst part was that he could feel Justice slipping away.

It was the first thing he'd noticed. For months, Justice been increasingly harder to control. The few times Justice took over, a full-on possession, Anders had been petrified, but there was no stopping it. He'd almost killed an innocent mage, nearly set the templars upon himself and even had blackouts in the middle of the day. It was a growing fear that had been spreading in his mind like this disease had in his arm.

Then, all of a sudden, it had stopped.

Where the very sight of templar armor could usually trigger Justice's rage now only brought on a vague feeling of worry. The sight of apostates, dirty, hungry, hurt, tugged at Anders' heart but no longer filled him with burning passion for vengeance as it had only weeks ago. For one clear moment, Anders felt like himself: the grinning idiot with a taste for shocking fools.

But he was empty, a void left wanting the spirit who had faded from his soul, leaving him a tired old husk. Every step toward Sundermount grew more and more exhausting; every moment in the sun and the hot air which coaxed sweat from his brow even while he shivered weighed on him until his only thought was to rest.

He couldn't stop. He had to fix this. That thought alone was his only drive as he continued on, lagging behind his companions. Every time Merrill and Varric glanced back at him, their concern plain in their eyes, he just forced a smile and tried to act as normal as he could.

It was midday before they even reached the foothills, and it took another hour traveling up the path towards the Dalish camp. Varric suggested they take a break to rest, to which Merrill was quick to agree. The day had gotten hot quickly, and Merrill herself definitely needed a moment to recharge. It _would_ have to be the hottest day of the year so far for them to set out on a climb of Sundermount. Luckily, it was cooler here than nearer the city, the area lush with trees and greenery so...green.

As Merrill settled down on a dry boulder near a cluster of trees, she watched her companions. It was the first time she'd been out of the city with anyone besides Hawke, and without their mutual friend in tow, the other three seemed to act...actually, exactly the same. Varric hunkered down near Anders and began chatting with him, producing a silver flask from his coat. He took a deep swig of it between breaths, and offered some to Anders, though the mage in question turned the offer down. Fenris wandered away on his own several feet, staring out along the road as if he were keeping guard, and he didn't speak a word to anyone. And Merrill sat by herself on her rock, pulling some fruit out of her satchel.

"Would you like some, Fenris?" she offered, holding out some of her meal to the other elf. He stood with his back to her, and if he heard her, he made no indication.

"Ah, leave him, Daisy," Varric called to her, waving her over. "But we'll happily take what you've got."

Merrill smiled and joined Varric and Anders, spreading her cache of fruit between the three of them. She felt bad for Fenris, standing alone, yet she knew he would never join them. He was far too stubborn for his own good. Then again, she knew many people who were like that.

Varric began to tell of his and Hawke's ventures into the Bone Pit a few years back. Both Anders and Merrill had heard this tale probably dozens of times, but every time Varric told it, it became a little different. At some point, the mine had become infested with full-grown dragons, which Varric and Hawke had disposed of nearly effortlessly, while apparently saving a young woman from peril.

Finally, Fenris spoke up, yelling from his position, "That's not what happened, and you know it." Varric merely laughed, and Merrill joined him.

Anders was quiet, though. Merrill had to fight staring at his face. In the time they had traveled, the black marks had spread up the right side of his neck, jaw and cheek and had circled around his temple, forking off into his hairline and creating long, black crowsfeet around the corner of his eye. It was obvious that he was getting worse, especially since he'd grown dead silent during their trip.

Not that he _was_ dead, of course, though his skin certainly looked like it was desiccating. If someone saw him from the right side, they might think he was a resurrected corpse. Merrill had wondered if blood magic was at play here, but hadn't been able to sense any of that sort of energy on Anders; in fact, his own power seemed rather subdued. Normally, Anders was like a constantly-burning ball of electricity, ready to strike down any injustice in his path. Between his own vast power as well as the spiritual force within him, Anders nearly pulsed with magic to anyone who bothered to notice. It was wondrous for Merrill to be around him, to sense this power.

So to feel like that power was cut in half was disturbing. He seemed wilted, fragile, like the cool breeze drifting down from Sundermount may knock him over should it pick up enough force. Sharing a glance with Varric, Merrill knew that he, too, felt concern for his friend. It made her all the more certain that they needed to get this cure for Anders. Sure, he was a bit of a jerk at times, and until recently, never laid off her for practicing blood magic, but he was a still a good person, Varric and Hawke's close friend, and a very nice man at times, she was sure, though she herself never saw it.

He absently swirled a skin of water in his living—er, that is, his _healthy_ hand, not really listening to Varric's tale. He almost seemed unaware of the world around him, even when the ground began to tremble.

Merrill and Varric jumped to their feet in surprise the moment a skeletal hand popped out of the ground. Merrill watched, fascinated, as a whole skeleton rose up from the hard-packed dirt as if it were a mere bedsheet, crawling from a long-forgotten grave. The undead didn't really scare her, but rather interested her. Yet she knew she had to be careful.

Around them, more bones popped up from the ground. Fenris was by her side within the blink of an eye, his big sword drawn and ready. In a circle around them, earth gave way to dusty bone, and not just human bones, either: a mabari's skeleton emerged from a patch of grass beside Varric, and what was once a dwarf climbed out of a gravelly pit. Other animals made their presence known, too—a snake's head, connected to two spine bones, slithered out from between some boulders; the sinewy skeleton of a rabbit poked out from right under Merrill's feet, and she jumped back in startled surprise.

The brush behind Fenris shook, and he turned in an arc, his greatsword drawn out in front of him, to slash at the rustling. There was an animal's yelp, and a the moving corpse of a wolf staggered out, its side split open to reveal rotting flesh flecked with maggots.

Merrill had never before seen the corpses of animals rise from the dead like this, and knew that a necromancer had to be nearby. All were on alert—except Anders, who still sat in his spot, holding his waterskin, his gaze blank and spaced out.

The next moments both flashed by in seconds and seemed to slow to a dreadful crawl. Merrill spotted the mabari's skeleton, fangs bared, leap towards Anders, and a carefully-placed bolt shot it to boney shards. A beat later, every skeleton and undead thing raced upon them, attacking with unfocused rage and overwhelming strength.

Merrill shot to Anders' side, erecting a barrier around them as she shook Anders by the shoulders, rousing him from whatever form of meditation or sleep he'd achieved. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, then looked around him and yelled out. "What is going on?" he cried, and before Merrill could even think to answer, a horrific mound of rotting flesh threw itself at Anders, digging teeth into his healthy arm.

With a yelp of apprehension, Merrill summoned up natural energy into her staff, focusing it in an instant on the creature and blasting it to stinking pieces. She turned as she heard a snap behind her to see the stunted skeleton of what once was a dwarf. It was missing an arm, and half of the skull was smashed in. It rushed forward towards her face, and she strengthened her shield as Anders jumped to his feet.

Her eyes were on Anders when she saw him focus his staff, his body tensed as he drew up power. She felt the energy in the air shift, and expected a powerful blast of electricity to hit this creature, as Anders would usually do. However, it seemed like his stamina had been suddenly drained from him, and he was barely able to let out the smallest of currents that immediately plunged harmlessly into the dirt. Merrill didn't have time to react, but Fenris' powerful blade slammed the creature into a boulder and ground it into dust.

Looking up, Merrill saw that the undead creatures had become more numerous, and they continued to approach the group, bones, claws and teeth bared and ready to sink into flesh. Even as they fell, Merill realized, the bones continued to move as much as they possibly can, jangling and skittering together as if they belonged naturally.

"We need to find who's doing this!" Merrill called over the noise of clamoring bones.

"What we _need_ is to get out of here!" Varric called back, pumping bolts into bones and rotting animals. "Where's Blondie?"

Merrill could barely respond as boney fingers dug into her arm, and saw a human skeleton crawling over Anders' crumpled body and grasping onto her. Gritting her teeth, she pushed the thing off her with her staff, its sharp fingers pulling on her armor, and unleashed her own electrical current into the thing. It fell into a heap of unmoving bone at her feet, and she turned to Varric and called out, "Anders is hurt!"

She heard Varric curse over the sound of crunching bone and flying bolts, than she heard him call, "I'm gonna hail it!"

Merrill didn't even protest, even though they were all in the way of the hail. Instead, she knelt down by Anders, stuck her staff into the ground, and focused every speck of mana in her body into a shield, which she expanded to protect herself and Anders. She called to Fenris to join them under her shield, but he didn't seem to hear her.

Then Varric unleashed the hail. Bolts upon bolts rained down, striking the creatures, pinning them down or simply breaking them apart to the point that they could not move. Fenris, having skillfully ducked out of the way, moved in to finish off what was left.

Merrill turned to Anders to see the blood that had stained the sleeve of his coat. He was staring at the crimson mark that stood out brightly against the blue material, and he still seemed very dazed. Merrill watched him for a moment, expecting him to heal himself, as he always did. But he didn't move.

"Everyone okay?" Varric asked, stepping over twitching bone fragments as he approached the two mages.

"I don't know," Merrill said, looking to Varric. He took one look at Anders and just muttered, "Shit."

Leading the group, Bianca in hand and ready to shoot any other beasties that might crawl up from the ground, Varric marched toward the Dalish camp. Behind him not three steps, Fenris and Merrill both semi-carried Anders up the path. The rebel mage was just two winks short of unconscious at this point. "They better not be much farther," Fenris growled. Varric could have guessed this wasn't exactly the way Fenris had planned his day to go.

Shit, they should have brought Hawke.

They moved as quickly down the faint path as they dared, grunts of exertion coming from the elves behind Varric. The bushes rustled, the trees creaked and the wind blew foul as they moved, a few spiky white pikes bursting from the dirt beneath their feet. Merrill was quick to dispense a quick fireball at these little interruptions, and Varric could shoot down any larger menaces. What he wanted to know was what in Thedas they could be.

Undead seemed obvious, but these piles of bones and rotting carcases seemed different than the risen corpses Varric had fought alongside Hawke. For one thing, they'd never fought undead animals before, a thought that crossed Varric's mind just as he shot a pinning bolt through the rotting pelt of a shambling wolf. For another, these monsters seemed to be targeting Anders specifically and not the whole group.

Hell, even when Hawke had pissed off a bloodmage enough to send corpses at her, they attacked the whole party. These, why, they just went for Blondie. Unless someone else attacked them, they seemed to ignore everyone else.

And, most important, they hadn't seen any other living being in the area. No mage, no trace of human elf or dwarf. And certainly not qunari, but that went without saying. Fenris had wondered if maybe someone from the Dalish tribe had gone mad and started resurrecting the deceased. That could explain why they were unable to track them, but Daisy said that there weren't other mages in the clan besides herself and the Keeper, and Marethari was rather unlikely to suddenly turn to blood magic.

Blondie was looking bad. His whole face from his left ear to his right cheek was totally black, and dark tendrils spread across the rest like an ink spill. Small pustules had formed on his face and neck and all up his black arm that smelled putrid. He could hardly stand to open his eyes more than a few seconds, and couldn't utter more than a pained groan.

Varric couldn't believe that the mage had been walking along with them not a few hours ago, and now he seemed to be knocking at Death's door and not yet getting an answer.

They weren't yet far from the camp, coming upon some stone formations that had become familiar to Varric. At this distance, one should be able to tell there was a camp nearby. One would smell cooking food, animal and the presence of people, or hear voices. But the Dalish were different. A man wouldn't know their camp was there until he waltzed right in and got poked through with a dozen arrows.

"We're almost there, Anders," Varric heard Daisy say, but she didn't even get a significant response beyond his groaning.

Varric picked up the pace, following the rock path. They passed through a small gorge when he heard a faint skittering which gradually got louder.

Turning in an instant, Varric caught a glimpse of three massive spiders, bigger than horses, their spindly legs stretching longer than Varric was tall. This wasn't his first encounter with such creatures, but these were wrong. Usually these spiders were brightly colored, toxic greens melding with fiery reds and oranges, hues mixing on coarse fur. The colors of these spiders were dull, and they moved in that same mechanical way as the other creatures they'd been fighting this whole way.

With lightning-fast reflexes, Varric shot a bolt through the many eyes of the spider in front of him, stopping it dead in its tracks, turning to his right to pin one which was headed straight for the elves. He turned his attention to the third while the second approached slowly, its ugly maws opening and closing as if it were chewing thick meat. Bianca running like the angel she was, Varric pinned the creature down and shot Bianca's lance through its head, almost slicing the thing in half.

He turned his attention to the second spider again, which had nearly torn itself apart trying to free from Varric's bolt. He took aim at the thing, staring its unseeing eyes down, and uttered, "Climb back up your water spout." He then lanced it through, dark green guts flying in an arc.

Or, that's the story he would later tell. What actually happened was a little different.

There was definitely no exaggerating their size. The spiders that lived in these parts grew to be ridiculously large. They blocked the path with their immense size, their squishy-looking bodies stinking in the hot sun. There was a silent pause for a moment, a mere beat before the spiders surged forward.

Varric managed to pin one down, but the other two shot past him. Fenris shoved Blondie down, shouting to Daisy to take care of him while he brandished his greatsword. He slammed the great blade down on one spider, right between its ass and its head, and sliced it apart.

Varric looked over his shoulder to Daisy, wondering if she was okay, and being assured by the sight of her absolutely toasting the spider Varric had pinned. A wave of fire spewed from the end of her wooden staff, feeding the flames engulfing the monster, her face hard in concentration.

Varric turned back to the last spider. It stood not a human's length away from them, its long legs covering ground at an alarming rate. Within a flash, it was upon them, and Varric shot Bianca's lance into its face as Fenris sliced up though its head. Its feet dug into the ground and it pushed against their force, threatening to knock them over.

Things started to happen in disconnected flashes. White sticky stuff engulfed Fenris from behind, and he fell to his knees. The spider in front of Varric forced its whole body up, the lance breaking off inside of it. Behind him, Varric heard a squelching, sucking sound which, when he turned, was found to be the head of the spider Fenris had killed.

Or thought to have killed.

Its big maw opened, revealing sharp teeth dripping with sticky poison. Caught between the spider and a half, Varric only had the blink of an eye to get away, and he made use of it, dropping to his belly and rolling out of the way as the disembodies head lunged at him. The head sunk its teeth into the other spider, and then both became encased in ice.

Varric looked to Daisy, standing protectively over Blondie. "Shoot them!" she called frantically to Varric, and without hesitation, he send a bolt into the hardened ice.

The sharp tip shattered the creatures, breaking like a mirror falling onto a hard floor. Crumbling to the ground, Varric stepped over the remains and made his way to Fenris.

He had cut himself free of the webbing that had been shot at him. The hindquarters of the spider laid beside him, now sliced into three jagged pieces, stinking of rot and leaking black ooze.

"Is everyone okay?" Daisy asked as Fenris got to his feet.

"No," Fenris answered dully, sheathing his sword. "We can't keep fighting these things."

"The camp is close," Daisy said, shouldering Blondie up again. Fenris just made an annoyed grunt and kicked aside a piece of frozen undead spider.

He looked at Varric with a glare. "Your turn," he uttered and headed up the path toward the camp.

Every muscle in Fenris' body was tense; every small hair on his neck stood on end; his eyes carefully scanned every face he saw. Though he counted perhaps two dozen Dalish elves among the caravans and tents carefully arranged in a protective circle, he knew without a doubt there might be two dozen more, hidden in the mountain, their arrows trained on the heads of the outsiders.

But that wasn't the only thing Fenris had to worry about, as it seemed their resident rebel mage had become a magnet for the undead.

Though he had had some experience with Dalish clans in his past, as well as having read of them a great deal, Fenris still preferred to defer to someone else when it came to communicating with the Keeper. He felt no kinship to the elves, but rather was made uncomfortable by their distrustful attitudes. Fenris had only visited this clan once with Hawke several months ago, and she'd been the one to handle the business. As usual, Fenris was just a muscleman in that ordeal.

When Keeper Marethari approached the group, Fenris gladly took hold of the unconscious mage so as to allow Merrill to speak with the Dalish leader. Watching the Keeper and her former First was usually fascinating to Fenris—one could see how awkward they felt around each other, considering how blinded by a fool hope Merrill was. Normally Fenris could enjoy seeing blood mage so uncomfortable. However, even as his ears picked up a faint rattling sound, he had to restrain himself from drawing his sword.

"My friend—he's ill," Merrill stammered, waving her arms at Anders.

"More than just ill, Daisy," Varric cut in, folding his arms across his chest. "It's really more along the lines of mysterious corpse-like symptoms combined with attracting the risen dead."

The Keeper's eyebrows rose up. "The risen dead?"

And then the ground shifted.

It felt like an earthquake, but with that little thread of magical energy behind it that anyone sensitive enough to feel would immediately know that something was off. Something was rising up again, and by the way the ground shook, it was big.

Fenris wanted to drop Anders right there and draw his sword, but thought better of it. The Keeper allowed herself only one glance before ushering the whole party towards a couple of tents. Fenris didn't need prompting to lay Anders down on one of the three bedrolls in the tent. As the Keeper knelt down beside the fallen mage, Fenris gazed out of the tent flap just in time to see two immensely large bone break the surface of the ground.

They reached up, stretching out of the earth like two long arms. The ground split in all directions from the point of origin, huge jagged cracks zig-zagging through grass and dirt, attempting to swallow the fleeing. Caravans crumbled into the chasms, wood splintering as if it were ancient and dry, and a hallah's bleat cut through the noise as it was dragged down.

More bones broke through the ground, ancient, brown and rotting. Anders temporarily forgotten, Fenris, Varric, Merrill and Keeper Marethari gazed out at the sight before them: bones defied natural law as they levitated out of the ground, slowly coming together to form the shape of a body, dirt and debris flying. The ground around the forming creature was totally abandoned, every elf having fled to higher ground to either seek shelter or ready themselves for attack.

Beside him, Fenris heard Merrill gasp as the bones ground together, forming a long spine that tapered into a whip-thin tail. Jagged and craggy bones formed two sets of legs beneath it while thinner, finer bones formed into the frames of wings. Its head formed last, pieces of bone coming together, grinding against each other with such intensity that Fenris felt it in his teeth.

There was one moment that stretched for eternity, where no one moved as they gazed upon the frightening sight of a skeletal dragon. Then its rattling jaw opened, and a blast of fire shot out towards the tents.

It happened so fast, and Fenris had almost rolled out of the way, but a strong, firm hand held strongly onto his arm, holding him in place. He watched as the white flames sped towards his face, only to blocked inches away, the searing heat coaxing sweat from his brow. Marethari and Merrill had both erected a strong shield together, blocking the fiery attack, holding it long enough until the flames subsided. Then Fenris felt the hand release from his arm, and he willed himself to stay in place.

"What is that?" Merrill breathed, staring up at the horrid sight. Empty sockets stared back at them, a faint ethereal glow the only indication that there was something behind it.

"More importantly," Fenris spoke up, "how do we kill it?" As he spoke, a hail of arrows descended upon the beast, and while the attack did seem to distract it, most of the arrows simply bounced off bone or through empty space.

The Keeper turned back to Anders. "I assume this is the risen dead you spoke of?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Well, basically," Varric answered, unable to rip his gaze away from the dragon.

"Keeper," Merrill said, kneeling on the other side of Anders, "have you ever seen this?"

Marethari shook her head. "I've only heard legends," she answered. She shook her head once. "Merrill, I will need your help." She turned and locked eyes with Fenris. "You and he will need to drive that beast's attention away. It is being drawn to what is inside of this young man. And it will rip him and all of us apart to get it."

Fenris nodded, then met Varric's gaze. He drew his crossbow as Fenris drew his sword. Taking a deep breath, Fenris ran into action.

In the tent, Merrill trembled.

She tried to remain calm, to focus on the task at hand—whatever that task was, the Keeper wasn't telling Merrill what she planned to do. But remaining calm was pretty hard when she could hear the monster just outside, feel every tremor it caused in the earth. Every battle cry, whirling arrow and clash of metal against bone distracted her, and she didn't at first hear what Keeper Marethari said.

"Merrill, pay attention," she snapped, causing Merrill to shake her head.

"So sorry," she said nervously, wringing her hands.

The Keeper shook her head. "Help me undress him," she said, beginning to unbutton Anders' coat.

Merrill gazed down at the unconscious mage before her, reaching forward lift him up and slide his coat off. He felt limp in her arms, and apart from the very shallow rising and falling of his chest, appeared dead. His quiet groaning had at last ceased, and Merrill worried they were too late.

Keeper Marethari stripped off his undershirt as well, exposing flesh blackened and bubbling with boils and pustules. Merrill was struck by how advanced the discoloration had become. His entire chest had become blackened, all the way down to his belly button. From there, the mass of black flesh petered out into tendrils that snaked into the waistband of his trousers.

"From what I've heard," the Keeper spoke as the world outside shook once more, "this sounds like the work of a lych."

"I've never heard of that," Merrill responded, having to raise her voice over an explosive bang.

A tight smile creased the Keeper's face. "In all your research and experience with spirits, you've never heard of a lych." It wasn't a question. "Well, they are rare." Her hands began to glow with mana, and she slowly massaged healing energy into Anders' chest and abdomen.

"But what are they?" Merrill asked, and she got her answer, just not from the Keeper.

Anders' eyes burst open, their pupils awash in blue ethereal light. "Parasites! Parasites!" he yelled, but his voice was wrong: tone and timbre were off, lower, and it sounded like he was speaking from far away and through a copper tube. In the corner of her vision, the world turned fuzzy, as if she were in the Fade and not in reality.

Justice.

"Get it out!" he bellowed. "I cannot!"

Merrill glanced between Justice and Keeper Marethari. The Keeper seemed to be deep in thought, probably trying to figure out what to do. Her gaze met Merrill's at last, and she seemed to be warring with herself over a decision. The sky outside sounded as if it split, and the Keeper seemed to have made her decision.

"I hate that I must ask you this," she said, her voice sounding heavy, tired. Merrill took a deep breath and waited for the worst.

Fenris ran with the wind at his heels, his greatsword drawn out to his side, slashing a wide arch through an army of rotting bones and necrotic flesh. His sharp blade plowed through every disgusting creature, the soft, stinking flesh not even slowing him down. He bounded up an inclined boulder, jumping off at the steep peak, to slam the blade with all of his strength into the browned bone of the dragon's back leg.

It swung around with a great, otherworldly roar, magical fire searing out of scorched jaws that seemed to unhinge and float in their place. A storm of arrows rained down upon the rattling beast, every sharp point hitting bone or stone, sending up a chorus of racket.

The great beast was far less impressive than when it had first broken free from the ground. Every arrow, blade and thrown stone broke off a piece of bone, reducing the dragon to dusty twigs in places. But even with so much mass missing, it seemed persistent in its assault, unleashing attacks of magic at the rocky mountain walls hiding elven warriors.

Whatever was driving this thing was not giving up. The dragon continued to lumber its slow pace towards the cluster of tents where Merrill and the Keeper were huddled away with Anders. In the time since Fenris had found himself flung into battle, the beast had made slow yet remarkable progress towards its target. Perhaps they should just surrender Anders to this undead army.

The break from his complaining had been nice.

Pausing behind a rocky cluster to catch his breath, Fenris wiped sweat from his face, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Almost too late did he hear the dragon fire another attack, and rolled away just before the flaming ball of magic hit the rocks behind Fenris.

The blast sent him sliding painfully across torn-up gravel and grass, his hand losing its grasp on his greatsword. Picking himself up, he backed away from a couple of skeletal wolves, their rotting teeth gnashing. Their approach was slow but steady, their empty eye sockets burning with ethereal light that threatened to unnerve Fenris the longer he gazed into them. Without taking a moment to think, Fenris tapped into the lyrium threading his body, thrust his fists into the wolves and shattered them. Reduced to little more than dust, the corpses fell motionless.

Gritting his teeth against the burning in his veins, Fenris almost missed the flash of red to his right.

"You gotta try that on Big Bad over there," came Varric's voice, somehow casual in all of this chaos. Fenris turned to the dwarf, brandishing his trusty corssbow. "Maybe in the head. Might bring it down for good."

"I'd rather not," Fenris panted, preferring to keep his certain special talent for poetic justice and revenge. At the same time, it seemed like Fenris wouldn't be the one making that call that day.

"It'll make for a great story to tell Hawke later," Varric said. "Come on, Elf. I've got you."

Fenris frowned deeply at Varric, and cursed the sun for rising on such a day."I'll only do it if you _don't_ make some tall tale out of this."

Varric chuckled. "No promises."

The dragon was closer to the tents. Much closer. If the constant action of the Dalish fighting back hadn't distracted it, the beast would surely have destroyed them by now. It was only the constant hacking of swordsmen, the pelting of arrows from archers and a few well-placed exploding bolts from Varric that kept the beast distracted.

But more and more dead were rising. Elves that fell in battle rose up once more, now attacking their brothers and sisters in death. For every warrior lost, the undead army grew. There was no time to hesitate. Fenris had to act.

He shot into a run, deftly dodging by grasping arms of bone and flesh. A spear shot out at him, and he twisted out of the way. His feet faltering on uneven ground, he struggled to find his footing and stumbled to his knees, landing hard against a boulder. Beside him, the twitching corpse of an elf fell, three bolts sticking out of its head.

With a deep breath, Fenris shot to his feet once again, ignoring the fire in his veins. He headed straight to the skeletal beast, shrunken now to almost half of its original size, just as it lumbered over the tents. Fenris shouted to it, but it was one of Varric's exploding shots landing in its crumbling ribcage that caught its attention.

It looked down at Fenris, its whole body aglow in red energy. Fenris felt the dark magic tingling his skin, speaking to the lyrium in his body. He reached within himself, staring fearlessly into the gaping maws of the dragon. It was charging an attack of its own.

Fenris took in a breath and jumped.

The dagger plunging deep, blood shot forth, taking on abstract shape as mana folded into it. Merrill felt the sting, but in her deep concentration, she hardly responded, or even comprehended it. The energy in her blood mixed with the energy from her magic, multiplying upon itself twofold, then twofold more, over and over at an overwhelming rate. The power blood magic brought was astounding, and within minutes, she was able to summon the power to create the smallest of tears in the Veil.

Immediately she felt the Fade, felt the every-changing reality within the tear rush into her mind and muddle thoughts into one big thought-pile. Instead of fighting the feeling, Merrill's experience with the Fade had taught her to embrace it, flow with it, and harness it.

The Keeper was also in deep concentration, her eyes clenched shut. She'd had her hands on Anders' chest, had them there for several minutes, in an attempt to draw from him this...parasite.

Merrill didn't know what it was, but Justice had called it a parasite. Not soon after his outburst had Justice gone silent, the ethereal light behind Anders' eyes fading. Seeing the spirit in such torment was absolutely terrifying; just what creature could wheedle its way into a host already possessed and cause such suffering?

Keeper Marethari didn't move, and when she spoke, her words were barely audible above the battle's cacophony outside. "Are you ready, Merrill? I have it."

"I'm ready, Keeper," Merrill responded, using the strength of her will to keep the tear open. Her head swam with the dream world's energy, and she felt the interested spirits start to draw toward it. Merrill usually got excited over spirits inquiring over the new tears she would make. She loved to talk to spirits.

But this time, Merrill didn't want to draw spirits out. They needed to send one through. And what a tast that was.

With great effort, Keeper Marethari began to pull whatever it was out of Anders. Merrill felt more than saw the spirit, but it did have a very faint physical form to it. It looked like mist, black as an abyss, and the energy it gave off was purely sickening. It was unlike anything Merrill had encountered in her adventures within the Fade.

Directing the spirit, as if she had absolute control over it, the Keeper fed the mist into the tear in the Veil. Merrill could feel the spirits shrink away from the vile energy being fed through, as if they also feared this dark presence. Would it attack them? Was there anything she could do to stop it? Should she write this down somewhere?

It seemed to take forever, and the more Merrill watched, the less she became aware of the world around her. Gradually, sound fell away until they were surrounded by dead silence, as if the battle outside had simply faded away on a dream. Objects in her peripheral—the beige of the tent; the yellow straw under Anders; hell, even Anders himself seemed to fall away until there was only herself, the Keeper, and this...thing.

The Keeper began to grow weary, and her concentration seemed to falter. Without a moment's hesitation, Merrill aided the Keeper with her own energy, that of which she could afford to expend. Keeping the Veil open and helping Marethari push the thing through required almost too much effort, and Merrill felt and overwhelming desire to simply stop.

Images of rest filled her mind: of simply taking a small break, to recuperate, before trying again; and of going back to Kirkwall and to bed. Her mind felt tired, her muscles sore as if the fighting she'd done had started to catch up to her. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she started to feel herself slip into the dream realm.

Something snapped her out of it. It wasn't a person, or a thought, but a flash of an image, of a rotting corpse glaring disapproving at her. It was absolutely bizarre, and most definitely from the Fade: a man, not before his fortieth year, dead and his flesh turning gray, his eyes clouded with death, with his arms folded across his chest as if her give Merrill a stern talking-to. Merrill almost burst out with laughter at the image.

Her willpower bolstered, she redoubled her efforts, and the Keeper managed to pull all of this creature from Anders and push it into the Veil. "Merrill," she breathed, her tone labored and exhausted, "close it."

She didn't need to be told twice, though closing a tear was a great deal harder than creating one. She delve deep within herself, into reserves of mana rarely tapped, and began to close the Veil. The spirits that had fled from the parasite were now back, desperate to force themselves into the realm of mortals while they still had their chance.

Merrill had to fight them back as she fixed the hole she had created. She pushed through, the names of greater spirits on her lips, as she took every last bit of mana she had left in her body and shut the door she had created.

She then fell back into the straw, hardly even able to move. She turned her head to Anders, her gaze falling over the flesh of his bared chest. Black was slowly receding to gray, then pale pink, the natural color of Anders' skin. They must have succeeded.

It was all very interesting, but Merrill was far too tired to care. She slipped into a deep sleep.

Anders sat on a hard wood bench in his clinic, the last patient having left a few minutes ago. For now, he was alone, though at any moment, someone could come in, seeking help for ailment.

It had been a week since Anders had returned from Sundermount. He hardly even remembered coming home, though Varric had filled him in on all of the grisly details. Knowing Varric, some of it had to have been exaggerated, but even Fenris was willing to admit they had fought an undead dragon.

He still wasn't completely healed. He glanced down at his arm, still saw the remnants of black tendrils snaking around a black patch about the size of a pebble. He'd get winded if he exerted himself too much, which often happened when he attempted to heal someone who'd had a bad run-in with the Coterie. His spells were definitely hindered, but he did feel a little better every day.

There was a quiet knocking on the door. It was faint, careful, and Anders would have missed it if there'd been anyone around. "Come in," he called, getting to his protesting feet.

The door swung open, revealing Merrill's form in the lanterns' dimming light. "I thought you might be asleep," she said, then doubled back. "I mean, uh, hello."

Anders offered a weak smile. He hadn't spoken to Merrill since he'd gotten back. He had been told what she had done, that she and the Keeper had been the ones to save him—and what they had to do to accomplish it. His feelings on the matter were, in a word, mixed.

"Oh, I brought you this," she said, holding out a large, ripe and red plum. She must have bought it in Lowtown's market somewhere. He didn't move to accept the fruit, and after a moment of awkward silence, she spoke. "What is it, Anders?" Her voice has a bite to it.

Turning away from her, Anders rubbed the back of his neck as he fought for a way to put his words. "Well, I must say that I do appreciate what you...did." He glanced back at Merrill, saw that her mouth was a tight, thin line. He sighed, decided to just rush in head-first. "But did you have to use _blood __magic_?"

"You can't be serious," she said, her arms holding the fruit dropping to her side.

"There could have been another way," Anders argued.

"There _wasn't_ any other option, Anders," Merrill said, dropping the now forgotten fruit to throw her hands in the air. "If there had been, don't you think that the Keeper would have preferred to go that way?"

Anders didn't respond. He hated blood magic, hated the bad name it gave to all mages, and how it had been the biggest case templars had towards their argument to keep mages in oppression. And here, it had been the reason he—and Justice—had lived. He didn't want to argue, but something in him wanted to fight against it. So he simply stayed silent.

Merrill just sighed. "Fine, Anders," she said, and turned her back to him. He watched her leave his clinic, his stomach tightening, his muscles tensing. He wanted to say something, anything.

He could only stare after her until Darktown had hidden her.


End file.
